ungodly hour
by endlessly wandering
Summary: All she does is stare at me for another moment, as if she's seeing me for the first time; and then she's leaning forward, smearing away a line from where a tear happened to fall with her kisses, like it's only a cloud of rain instead of a storm.


**I'm at the airport literally about to start boarding my flight and this FINALLY uploaded.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **ungodly hour**

"Stop the car, please."

I look at her from the corner of my eye. Stare in what lacking depth at her eyes; at the solemn burn that crosses into her pupil, much like the greenish-blue streak that only comes into clear view when she's upset. Part me of hates the way she says the word please––almost like an order, but even so, the headlights of the cars behind me rush past in a flurry of honks and curses out the window as I pull off near a ditch.

I put the truck in park, the steady roar of the engine dying off to a wheezing cough. "Everything okay?"

And I know the moment that she takes my hands in hers that everything is not okay. That everything hasn't been okay for a while, and I've been too naive, too in love with her, to notice. I know the moment she interlocks her fingers with mine, the moment my thumb runs along the back of her hand like I've always done, that everything isn't okay.

I know the moment she looks at me, and her eyes scan over my face as if she's looking at me for the last time. "I'm leaving, Soda."

I take one hand out of hers and reach behind me to lock the doors. "No, you ain't. Not anymore."

But she only unlocks them from her side, murmuring, "You knew this was comin', Soda. You knew."

I did; I knew it like the back of my hand that this day would come. I just never thought it would be now.

She seems to read my mind, for she sighs and puts her hand back on mine. "I know it's sudden and all," she says, not meeting my gaze, "but I need to go. I need to leave this place."

"Let me go with you," I counter, but she only smiles gently, as if my words have pained her much more than her own.

"I need to leave us," she whispers. "I need to leave you."

"Is it something I did?"

She's quick to jump to my defense. "No! God, no. Soda," her hand tightens around mine. "you've done nothing. You're such a sweet boy; such a good boy. But... but there are things I have to sort out by myself right now, without you."

"Without me," I echo, and she nods. "What—"

"I'm pregnant."

Her response stops me cold, allows me to see just how painful this is for her. It's painful, but it's not going to change; and if there's one thing I've learned since being with her, it's to not try and change her mind.

But even still, the silence becomes too much, so I say the only thing that's swirling through my head. "Oh."

"Yeah," she says, and her voice cracks on her next words: "I'm sorry, Soda... I love you—"

"This is gonna work."

"Don't kid yourself—"

"I ain't kidding!"

Her eyes are tearing up, and the tears fall as she whispers, "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

"Then don't leave Tulsa; don't leave me."

"I have to!" she cries, and her hands are gone from mine to wipe furiously at her face.

"Why? What's so bad you gotta leave?"

"Because it ain't yours, Soda!" She's screaming now, and I reach for her, but she denies and hisses at me to back away. "I'm not about to make you a father when you're not even the one who did this."

I should be angry. God, I should be screaming and hollerin' at her to get out, to leave, to never come back. I should be crying at her to go and crawl back to the man who made her this way; should be leaving her on the side of the road with nothing but the clothes on her back.

But I'm not doing that. In fact, I'm not doing anything. I'm simply sitting here, staring, hoping, praying, that this whole thing is a dream and I'm about to wake up. I'm sitting here, staring at her, staring at the crisp blue of her eyes; at the blonde of her hair; at everything and anything my eyes can roam, for I'm not sure where this is going to go once I speak.

"Go," I say weakly, and I'm not sure if it's my head or my heart speaking for me. And for a moment, her eyes brighten with confusion, as if she's wondering the same thing.

But she doesn't press the matter. All she does is wipe a tear from her cheek and whisper a slur of thank you's. All she does is stare at me for another moment, as if she's seeing me for the first time; and then she's leaning forward, smearing away a line from where a tear happened to fall with her kisses, like it's only a cloud of rain instead of a storm.

She's gone in a matter of minutes, and I'm left alone with nothing but God to blame; no one but myself to hate.


End file.
